4:05 am.
Lost in the dark,
He screams.
The last memory he had,
Was like a dream.
A nightmare.
He ran.
Through the forest.
Away from the monster.
3:55 am.
Someone knocked.
The house full of silence,
Echoed.
No answer.
Knocked again.
Twice this time.
Someone came.
Stumbling in the dark,
The "Ahhs" and "Ouches",
Audible through the door.
"Who is it?",
Said a voice.
"*grunts and snorts*",
Said something.
"Do you know the time!?"
"LEAVE!!"
Screamed a voice.
No response.
Something left?
4:00 am.
Knock on the door.
This time strong.
Door broke.
Not after long.
3 people living in the house.
Parents and their single kin.
All awake.
All shudder.
All afraid.
All silent.
Father gets up.
Acts the part.
"Be a man",
Runs in his head.
Mother in the back.
Like a broken record,
Prays.
For she was a catholic.
When it was for her benefit.
Father walks in the lounge.
To see a something,
7 feet tall.
And bulging muscles.
In the dark,
Only his outline visible.
And the unforgettable shine.
Almost like lights as eyes.
Father tried to run.
Too late.
Something smelt his scent.
He was now just bait.
Blood splatters.
Guts around the fan.
The white silk couch,
Now a shade of death.
Mother heard the screams.
She ran down,
Without giving it much thought.
She was at the mouth of death.
She saw something,
And something tasted her.
Her screams.
Her blood.
And her brain matter.
They painted the grey walls,
Like the most beautiful,
Most breathtakingly,
And awe-inspiring,
Art anyone had ever seen.
Even la jaconde was a thing of less.
Now the son.
He heard his parents.
And he saw the colour.
And he ran into the forrest.
That he had been so afraid of.
The dark seemed,
More inviting to the,
Nyctophobic.
Than facing something.
He ran with all his might.
Looking back just once.
He scuttled and tripped,
On a root that made his future.
Daunting and painful.
"Do or die" people say,
He did and died.
4:08 am.
His last view of the world,
Death running towards him.
With blood rushing down it's mouth,
And claws that could pass for knives.
Covered with a burnt skin.
And eyes as red as,
The viscous fluid that kept him alive.
4:10 am.
The last thing he heard,
His dulcet shriek,
For the pain was going to end,
Ante-muto.
The pain was to begin.
~CrosOver
YOU ARE READING
The Psyche Of Mine
Poesía**** I've never really known how to move, where to see or what to feel.. But sometimes, I have moved enough to be alive, I have seen enough to not go blind, And I have felt words enough to feel.. **** **** Its my first time properly penning down m...
